


Human

by StarsMadeinHeaven



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 05:36:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15212339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsMadeinHeaven/pseuds/StarsMadeinHeaven
Summary: When the wall came down, Germany and Prussia finally reunited. Prussia, however, is not a nation anymore. It takes them a while to face reality.





	Human

###  Human 

Sometimes you tell yourself a lie so frequently, you end up believing it’s true. Hope is the last to die, after all, and Germany prayed –something he hasn’t done in decades- that Russia dragging Prussia away wasn’t going to be the last memory he had of his brother. There was no way Prussia could die.

In the following years, the last thought Germany had before slipping under the covers was that Prussia was somewhere in Russia’s house, writing maniacally in his journals. Russia neither confirmed nor denied his fears, and that childish smile permanently plastered on that round, pale face made a cold shiver run down Germany’s spine. 

But hope is the last to die, after all, so Germany tried not to cringe whenever he stopped in front of a world map and realized that Prussia wasn’t there anymore. Germany woke up every morning and never let his eyes linger on the wall right in front of his window for more than strictly necessary. 

At world meetings, Germany would ask Russia if Prussia was alive. The answer was always a simple yes. May I see him? No. Talk to him? Not yet. France, Spain and Italy would measure him with a pitying look, and Germany would avert his gaze and try to keep calm. Sometimes countries forget it’s their fault things turn out the way they do. Prussia was just collateral damage. 

And then, one day, the wall came down, and Prussia stepped over the ruins, pale as always, a wry smile under his straight nose, blood red eyes brimming with life, and none of them knew what to do with the sudden apparition. 

Spain asked: “Should we call him Prussia? Can I still call him Prussia? He is not a country anymore”. 

America said: “He must be just another communist country now”. 

But Gilbert Beilschmidt was neither Prussia nor a new-born country, so Germany decided his brother was going to be East Germany for now on and left it at that. Prussia didn’t disappear as Grandpa Rome had right in front of Romano and Veneziano's eyes. Prussia actually had a body to hug, his scent was the same, and his voice was as hoarse as Germany remembered it to be. 

Germany clung onto him like a child to his mother, and Prussia laughed, kissed his forehead and called him a wuss. But Germany didn’t want to let go, although he knew he was making a fool of himself. He feared that, if he did, Prussia was going to vanish into thin air. 

(He didn’t).

Prussia returned home with Germany and moved in the basement. He said he was used to no light and the damp. A camp bed was enough. Could Germany buy some good wrust? Prussia was sick and tired of trurya and kholodets. 

It took Germany a couple of years before he could accustom Prussia back to their old ways. He managed to throw out the camp bed and put a nice one in its place when Prussia was out with his friends. He got better electricity up in the basement and set up a home network. He bought his brother new books and new journals. 

Prussia assured him that he liked his new name. He was the awesome East Germany now, and Germany was going to be simply called West. 

(Prussia, however, didn’t get used to it. When West called for East, Prussia would turn to look at him just one time out of five. If Germany called for Prussia, he would immediately be by his side). 

Prussia was obsessed with the new technology. He loved online strategy games. He drank like a trooper. He liked loud music. The Puhdys, Karat and Silly. And then he started listening to bands like Rammstein, and Germany finally realized that Prussia was getting bored. 

“Do you need a hand?” Prussia asked. 

“It’s just paperwork,” Germany replied. 

“I can do that,” Prussia said. “Let me do something. I’m dying here”. 

And Germany let him, because the thought of Prussia dying –even if it was just a figure of speech- made his hair stand on end. But soon Prussia would get fed up with paperwork too and would sneak out to spend his time with France or Spain or Hungary. The times might be changing, but Prussia was still the same old Prussia.

Until the day Germany realized that he was not. 

One day, Prussia tried out his old outfits, and Germany tilted his head in confusion, because something was not right with the scene unfolding right in front of his eyes. There was no way Prussia looked older. 

One day, Prussia willingly started washing the dishes, grabbed a knife at the blade and cut himself. Germany found him leaning over the sink, a lost look on his face, while he poured icy cold water on his wound. 

“Germany,” Prussia called him, turning around to face him. “It’s not healing”. 

Germany was by his side in two strides. He gently took Prussia’s hand in his and assessed the wound. Worry flashed briefly across Prussia’s face, but when Germany looked up, his brother was smiling reassuringly at him. 

“We should go to the hospital,” Germany said. There were little drops of blood spattered on the wall in front of the sink from when Prussia had dropped the knife in pain. The tap was dirty as well. Water kept pouring out of the faucet, getting the sink clean. The wound was deep. Germany didn’t know what to think. 

“It’s okay, it will heal eventually,” Prussia said, but it was obvious he didn’t believe it. Germany’s eyes were on him again and he gasped when he noticed that Prussia was getting paler. 

Germany grabbed a towel and wrapped the wound in it. He dragged his brother out of the kitchen and ignored Prussia’s protests when he pushed him out of the front door. Nations healed fast, and since Prussia wasn’t a nation anymore, he was going to heal slower. Maybe going to the hospital was completely unnecessary, but better safe than sorry. 

A nation’s wound due to carelessness handling of the kitchenware disappeared in a matter of minutes. A nation’s wound inflicted by another nation, especially if deep, always left a scar behind as reminder. Prussia’s needed stitches. 

When they got back home and Prussia barricaded himself in his room, Germany cleaned the wall and the tap from the blood, grabbed the knife and carefully inflicted the same wound on himself. He waited. He measured how long it took him to heal. Five minutes and thirty eight seconds. 

Two weeks later and Germany could still see where the blade had cut into Prussia’s skin. Prussia too couldn’t stop staring at it. 

When Prussia burned himself on the hot stove, Germany officially banned him from the kitchen. Any blunt object was put safely away. Any electronic device was banned from the bathroom. Watch out for cars before crossing the streets. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t pick fights you can’t win. Be careful. 

“Will you stop that?” Prussia asked, when Germany kept eyeing him while he was filling out paperwork. “You’re worse than a safety-crazed mother. A paper-cut won’t kill me, West!” 

But what if it got infected? Germany thought, but he tried to tone it down anyway. 

Something was definitely wrong. 

* * *

Another thing: nations weren’t supposed to get wrinkles. 

“You look more… mature,” Germany said one day. 

“Gosh, West. Next time you compliment, try not to frown, will ya?” 

“I don’t know if I meant it as a compliment”. 

Prussia rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Those very same eyes Germany had grown up with. The same white hair, the same thin lips, and that same nostalgia for the past. Prussia was off-key as always. He was harsh as always. Laughed loudly as always. Liked dirty jokes as always. He was narcissistic as always. But older. 

One day Germany decided to talk to Italy about it. 

“I was just wondering,” Germany said as an ice-breaker, “what exactly happened to your grandpa?” 

“You mean when he disappeared?” Italy asked, confused. 

“Yes, well,” Germany hesitated, “did you see him disappearing?” 

Italy tilted his head to the side. 

“Actually no,” Italy confessed, “he just waved me goodbye and walked away. I never actually saw him vanish into thin air like a ghost. I never saw him again, though, so I guess he probably did at some point”. 

“Oh,” Germany breathed, because he suddenly was at a loss for words. So what happened? Did something happen to Grandpa Rome? A single stab to the heart when he was too weak to fight back? Maybe Rome knew he was changing, but engaged in combat anyway. Maybe Rome couldn’t heal. A nation killed him, even when nations can’t kill another nation in the most traditional sense of the word. It took much more than a single stab to the heart. They needed to bring down the economy, make them politically weak, erase the borders from the map. All in all it could take weeks or even years to kill a nation off.

The question was: Prussia wasn’t a nation anymore, so what was he? 

“I’m East Germany, West,” Prussia told him. “Why should I look for a job?” 

“Because paperwork is not your thing,” Germany said. “Do you really want to spend your days doing something you don’t like?” 

“Wow,” Prussia whistled, arching his eyebrows in amazement. “So you do love me after all”. 

But Prussia didn’t go looking for a job. Actually, he stumbled on it. 

That day Prussia took the bus to Berlin’s city center. He usually went on foot, but not that day. His legs felt too weak to walk. He sat down on the first available seat, letting out a sigh of relief, and wiped the sweat from his brow, staring at his reflection in the bus window. On the seats behind him, a group of teenagers were discussing their history project together. 

Prussia’s name came up more than once, but none of the students were getting the facts just right. Prussia’s brow twitched in annoyance. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he exclaimed at some point, turning around to face the four students debating on whether old Fritz was born in 1200 or later. “Do you even learn history in school?” he asked, throwing his arms up in frustration, and started teaching the kids Prussia’s history right there in the bus. 

The kids shared worried looks. They obviously thought he was some kind of freak and soon pressed the button to get off at the next stop. Prussia watched them leave and heaved a sigh in frustration. 

“Kids these days,” he mumbled, taking out his iPod, and began unraveling the earphone wires. 

“Excuse me,” a brown haired woman on her fifties said to get his attention. Prussia blinked as the woman sat down next to him. “I couldn’t help but overhear your history lesson,” she said, smiling widely. 

Prussia stared at her green eyes and his heart did a flip in his chest. 

“I’m a teacher too,” she continued, unfazed by Prussia’s stunned silence. “Your colleagues and your students must be proud of you. It’s difficult to find a competent history teacher these days”. 

“I’m not a teacher,” Prussia said. She looked surprised. 

“I’m Ulrike,” she said after a moment of thought, stretching out her hand. He took it. 

“I’m Pr-! Gilbert, my name is Gilbert”. 

“I can schedule an interview for a teaching position at my school,” Ulrike said. “We desperately need a man like you, so I hope you’ll give it some thought”. 

Two days later, Prussia came home with news. 

“I’m a history teacher, West”. 

Germany almost fainted from shock. 

His first day of work was the day he thanked God for never going to school. Kids ran down the hallway, shouting and bullying the younger students. Prussia even spotted two teenagers almost dry humping next to the bathrooms and it got worse when he finally found his classroom and saw the pitiful state it was in. He cursed loudly when he tried to open the door and it put up resistance to him, and he almost fell down on his face when someone opened it for him from the inside. Twenty pair of eyes looked at him. Twenty mouths started whispering and snickering among each other. Some hands even flipped him off. Prussia had dealt with insurrecting troops and insolent soldiers before, so he knew what to do. 

Prussia sat down on his desk. The students shut up and took out their books. He did the same and flipped through the pages, skimming through the notes at the bottom of each page. Under the shocked eyes of his pupils, Prussia burst out laughing and threw the outdated book in the trash bin. 

By the end of the day, he was everyone’s favorite teacher. 

* * *

Ulrike taught English. She moved in Berlin a decade before, but she was actually from Hungary. 

Prussia thought: “I know”. 

She liked dogs and was a hell of tennis player. She was amazed by Prussia’s traditional weaponry knowledge. She particularly liked a feint scar above Prussia’s white eyebrow. She asked him how he got it; he didn’t tell her it was Hungary’s frying pan that did it. 

Six months later, Ulrike asked him out. 

Prussia said: “Okay, whatever”. 

She asked him when he was born. Prussia said: “3rd October”. 

“Where? In Berlin?” 

“Yeah, why not”. 

“Are your parents still alive?” 

Prussia said no. He didn’t mention his brother. She had a sister living in Utah. Prussia said he’s never been to Utah. 

His brother wasn’t happy. 

“You can’t date humans, Prussia. You know a nation can’t-!” 

“Oh, for the love of God, West,” Prussia cut him off. “I’m not a nation anymore, am I?” 

Germany shut up. 

A year later, Prussia woke up and saw his reflection in the bathroom’s mirror. His reflection stuck his tongue at him and pointed at the two new wrinkles under his eyes. Prussia laughed. 

“Hey, West!” he exclaimed making his way to the kitchen. “Don’t I look like old Fritz?” 

Germany didn’t share his joy. 

Ulrike too thought he was mad for being so excited about getting older. 

“I don’t know anyone who wants to grow old,” she said. 

“I was born with white hair, I was born old,” Prussia said. “I don’t look that different”. 

Ulrike laughed. 

But it was not just his white hair that made the difference. It was the ache in his bones when it got colder. It was his knees hurting whenever he climbed up the stairs. He started paying attention to what he ate. It was Ulrike’s fading health that made him reconsider his stance on medical coverage. 

The last time Prussia followed Germany to a World Meeting was six years before. He didn't have the strength to anymore. France and Spain were too young to go partying with them, and even if Prussia would never decline a drink, Gilbert Beilschmidt had to. 

Gilbert felt more at ease with Ulrike, the rest of the teaching staff and his pupils than with the other nations. When Ulrike met Germany for the first time, she thought he was Prussia’s son from a previous marriage. She was quite sore about being kept in the dark but soon got over it. 

“I don’t have the time to hold grudges,” she said. 

“I didn’t tell you because I thought you would hate me,” Prussia said, the lie rolling easily off his tongue. 

“Why would I hate you?” she asked. “Anyway, he has taken from his mother, hasn’t he? He looks nothing like you. Just the eye shape is strikingly similar”. 

“Is he a good son?” Ulrike asked. 

“He’s better than me,” Prussia said, proud. 

When Ulrike and Prussia decide to break up is by mutual agreement. Prussia didn’t want to marry her, and she had long realized he has always loved another woman. (Ulrike just came from Hungary, after all).

Ulrike, however, was glad to have met him. 

“You are the best history teacher I’ve ever met,” she said. “But what’s even better is that you are a really good man, inside and out”. 

On his last day of work before he definitely retired, Prussia stared at the world map hanging on the wall much more frequently than usual. 

“We should go over Hungary’s history,” Prussia said at one point. 

“We did that yesterday,” one of the students said. 

“Oh, right, right”. 

When Prussia tried his old uniforms on later that evening, he realized they didn’t fit him anymore. Germany was not home, and Prussia tore the whole living room apart in search of his old journals and their old photo album. 

“It was under the bed,” Germany said when he returned back from a meeting with Italy. “As always”. 

“For real?” Prussia wondered. 

The next day he took the train and paid a visit to Austria. His old friend was as handsome as he remembered him to be, stuck up but being a gentleman about it at the same time. 

Austria offered him a cup of hot-cocoa. Prussia declined. 

“I need to tell you something,” Prussia said. “But don’t go spill the beans to Germany as you always do, okay?” 

“What is it?” 

“I’m starting to forget,” Prussia confessed. Austria stared. 

“I know you don’t care about me,” Prussia continued, “so I know you are not going to throw a fit when I’ll tell you that I sometimes need to consult my history book in order to remember what happened to me in the past. I sometimes forget nations are a thing and not a figment of my imagination Sometime I wonder who the hell am I, who am I supposed to be, and sometimes I forget Germany is not my son or my grandson”. 

“I guess your mind reached information overload,” Austria said. “Humans are different from nations, Prussia. They can’t recall in great detail every single event they experienced in ten years, let alone one thousand like you”. 

“At least someone says it,” Prussia said. 

“What?” 

“That I’m a human,” Prussia replied. “I stopped being a nation the moment the wall came down”. 

Austria didn’t reply, and Prussia asked him to play the piano for him to relieve the sudden tension in the room. He never thought that one day he would miss Austria’s performances. It took him so long to realize how many things he had taken for granted. He should have spent more time with Hungary and Austria. He should have talked with Germany more. 

When he returned home that evening, Germany was cooking dinner. 

“Why don’t you invite that cute guy over, West?” Prussia asked. “You like him. And Antonio and Francis too. I miss their jokes”. 

“What cute guy?” Germany asked, knitting his eyebrows in confusion. 

“The Italian one,” Prussia said. 

“North Italy?” Germany asked. 

“Yes, yes, that one,” Prussia said. “Tell his brother to come too. Spain will be happy”. 

Germany couldn’t deny his brother anything those days. He called Veneziano, Romano, Spain and France to come over for dinner. He stared as his brother talked like some old veteran with Italy. Romano and Spain kept sharing knowing looks, and Germany felt grateful to France for indulging Prussia when he asked for anecdotes about his life. It was a pleasant evening; Germany wished he had done that with Prussia more often. He remembered when they used to talk to each other beneath a starry sky, waiting for some battle to start. He remembered his brother discussing animatedly with Fritz. He remembered Prussia as he used to be when he was just a young nation. But it was just a glimpse into the past, and those memories too, like that evening, would soon be forgotten. Little moments lost in time. 

* * *

Prussia was losing his mind. 

Sometimes he called himself ‘old Fritz’, when he talked to himself while looking in the mirror. Prussia jumped in surprise, whenever they took a walk in the park to get some fresh air and old women congratulated Germany for being such a good nephew. One day, when Germany called him Prussia, he turned around and scratched his head in wonder.

“My name is Gilbert, West,” he said. “Did you forget?” 

Even if the one forgetting was Prussia himself. 

The world map hanging on Prussia’s room slowly turned yellow at the edges. When Prussia finally realized it was time they replaced it, he said: 

“Hey, Ludwig, do you think Fritz felt the same thing as I do now when his time came?” 

“Your time has not come, Gilbert,” Germany said, staring at Prussia while he carefully rolled his map up. It was the first time Prussia called him by his human name. 

“Oh, well, you’re young,” Prussia said, “I suppose you can’t understand, but it was fun, wasn’t it, Ludwig?” he asked, laughing. His voice shaking, eyes brimming with life. It was the last time Prussia called him by his name. 

Ulrike was present at his funeral. Prussia’s old students were there too. The teaching staff. Hungary. Austria. France. Spain. And all the nations that had known him well. Italy grabbed Germany’s hand and held it tight throughout the ceremony. 

Prussia looked peaceful in his coffin, his hands intertwined above his chest, his red eyes closed forever. Germany looked down on his brother and ran a hand through Gilbert’s white hair. For a fleeting second, Gilbert’s face became young again. 

Sometimes you can lie to yourself all you want, but you have to face the truth eventually. Prussia can die. Probably it happened to Rome as well, who engaged in battle and got himself killed. Maybe Greece’s mother died in the same way, abandoning her son before he could see right through her. Maybe even Germany’s grandpa faced a human death. 

Or maybe Prussia was too awesome to simply disappear. Maybe someone had taken pity on him and gave him another chance at life, even if it was a mortal one. Prussia was too great, too unique, too strong to vanish into thin air like a ghost. Prussia had been Prussia until the very end. He showed off his mortal body, his chest puffing out with pride. He had tried his best to keep history alive. And Germany could see him, while they closed the coffin forever, standing above the altar with his hands on his waist, young and handsome, his red eyes soft and terrifying at the same time, laughing, mocking, smiling and saying: 

“I’m too awesome to die, West. I’m Prussia”. 


End file.
